The Wallet
by bibliophile tropicale
Summary: What's in your wallet?  Fate brought them together for the first time!  Tom Robertson returns. Two years after Laura's Lost Love.   A sequel to The Interview-Perry, Della and Laura's Lost Love
1. Chapter 1

_A sequel to __The Interview-Perry__,_ _The Interview-Della__ and __Laura's Lost Love_

PG-13 Alcohol and tobacco consumption, language and sexual situations.

Author: Bibliophile tropicale

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I don't own the characters of Perry Mason and Della Street. My reward is not monetary. The only reward is the pleasure of bringing these characters to life in story form.

Acknowledgement: I'd like to thank my beta reader for her time, support and encouragement.

_What's in your wallet? Fate brought them together….two years after __Laura's Lost Love__._

_The Wallet—Chapter 1_

Della Street rushed inside the upscale eatery, slipped into the corner booth and caught the tail end of a lewd joke. The secretary's four best friends sat laughing hysterically. Their friendships had begun in the steno pool of Sterling and Price and, despite new jobs and new schedules, the group continued to meet and share their lives and experiences as time allowed.

"Oh, Della, we're almost ready to leave," Vi exclaimed trying to catch her breath from laughing. "We thought you weren't coming."

Della knew when she left the office she was running late. Still, she'd hoped to squeeze in some time with her friends before meeting Perry for lunch at the same eatery. The lawyer was returning from a meeting in south LA and had promised to arrive at the restaurant for their lunch engagement.

"I tried to leave the office, but Jackson called from the courthouse and needed some last minute information. You know how it is!" Della confessed, exasperated.

"We know. We know!" the three other secretaries replied in unison.

Stella glanced at her watch. "We have 15 minutes, girls. Let's bring Della up to speed."

"Do you have your organizer with you?" Vi asked.

Della pulled the book from her purse and opened it immediately to the date, the pages covered with appointments, reminders, colorful tabs and directions. The three women looked at each other and smiled. "Of course she does. She's good," they declared, their heads nodding in agreement.

Della grinned. "I'm better than good."

"And modest too," Betsy added.

Vi pushed the plates aside and pulled out her planner and opened it. "We're making plans for a ski trip to Colorado over the holidays. We'll be booking our rooms in the next few days."

Betsy pulled out a brochure and placed it across Vi's planner. "This is the chalet, Della. And look, here's the fireplace and check this out….. Phillipe, Marco, and Claude will be our skiing instructors."

"You know how to ski, Betsy!" Della laughed.

The secretary brought her fingertip to her lips. "No, I don't. Not when Phillipe can put his arms around me on those slippery slopes."

The three women gave each other knowing looks, then Vi spoke, "On this trip no one knows how to ski, got it?"

"I get it," Della mused.

"This is the date." Vi pointed to the number in her calendar.

Della penciled the date into her book. Wistfully she sighed, "You know, I really don't know if I can obligate myself. Murder cases don't follow a neat schedule. They happen, and the holidays seem to bring out both the best and the worst in people."

Vi sighed as she closed her book. "What's the saying, 'death doesn't take a holiday'?"

Betsy tried to look solemn but came off as tongue in cheek. "The holidays can be murder. We've had some rough times around our house, a lot of yelling and screaming. Fortunately no one died."

Stella folded her arms. "Well this is certainly cheerful. Here I am curled up next to Claude by the fireplace and you three have someone getting whacked."

"Well, it's what she does," Vi interceded. "Since Betsy and I are in corporate law and your office handles family and civil cases, we can pretty much follow a schedule."

She looked over at Della and shrugged her shoulders. "Sorry. We forget this criminal law stuff is so different.… and," she grinned, "probably far more interesting."

Vi reached over and patted her friend's hand. "Just do the best you can. It won't be the same without you. Can't you convince Perry to hold off on taking any cases over the holiday and that you two need this time away from it all? Bring him along; there are only three ski instructors and we're not sharing." Then she winked. "Not that you'd be interested anyway."

Della smiled sweetly. "I'll see what I can do."

Stella checked her watch again. "That's it ladies, duty calls."

One by one they slid from the booth, gathering their purses and headed across the floor of the restaurant as a bus boy scurried to clear away their dishes. As they reassembled near the door, they noticed three men waiting at the entrance for their table.

"Isn't that Morgan Pierce, CEO of Radco Electronics?" Vi whispered to Betsy. "And his VP Stanley Mortison?"

Betsy's eyes narrowed as she studied the two men, her eyes moving to the taller man with them. His appearance was impressive: expensive gray suit, a gold watch chain dangling from his pocket, white hair swept back from a patrician face. "Yes, I think you're right. I've seen them around. Radco has grown very quickly. I had lunch with Phyllis Jason on Thursday and she said they've hired a lot of new people and are looking for more, especially in product development. Who's that with them?"

Stella listened to her friends and followed their gaze as the three men were led to their old table. "I don't know about the CEO or VP, but the man with them…" Stella nodded her head as she studied him from head to toe. "I'd like to take him on that ski trip."

Della watched her friends ogle over the three men in business suits and wondered what was keeping Perry. She smiled and cleared her voice. "Humm, where will you be eating next week?"

Stella glanced at her watch again. "I don't know, Della, but we have to run. We'll call and let you know, promise."

The three each gave her a hug and darted for the door. Della sighed and turned to the maitre'd. "I believe you have a reservation for Perry Mason."

The CEO and VP of Radco ordered cocktails, while the older man ordered whiskey. Nervously Morgan Pierce smoothed down his tie and looked around the restaurant for any familiar faces. He wanted to make sure their meeting was anonymous before he began. "Radco is an up and coming electronic's company. Our research and development group has been working diligently in hopes of gaining a lucrative military contract." Pierce's eyes studied the man seated across from them, found a face devoid of expression, and felt his courage waning.

Stanley Mortison stepped in. "The navy is in need of a new navigation system for their submarines and we know we can satisfy that need." He paused and was disappointed when the man across from them remained silent. He plowed on. "Mr. Robertson, we're very grateful you could meet with us today on such short notice."

The server brought out their drinks and placed them on the table. The Radco executives anxiously sipped their cocktails, watching Robertson's eyes study them and then glance in the direction of the maitre'd and the tall slender brunette.

Tom Robertson sat quietly with his hands folded in his lap and felt discomfort in his lower back. He could hear Morgan Pierce's voice droning on and saw the sweat pop out on the man's brow. With one hand, Robertson surreptitiously reached behind him for the object. Careful to keep the object below the table and out of view, he glanced down …..a smooth black oblong wallet with a sleek and elegant gold fastener.

Robertson's eyes glanced up again and saw Morgan Pierce digging in his coat pocket. His eyes immediately scanned around the restaurant, checking out the other patrons as his finger moved across the velvety leather. The maitre'd escorted the woman he had noticed across the floor to a table in the far corner. His eyes flowed over her tall, shapely form, long legs, and short wavy hair. Gracefully she slipped behind the table and looked toward the entrance. His eyes returned to the anxious men who sat across from him.

Pierce nervously held the folded paper in front of him. "Again, Mr. Robertson, we are grateful you could meet with us. Thank your for working us into your busy schedule."

_Stop the damn groveling and get on with it." _Robertson blankly watched the man, not revealing his impatience, as his finger gently caressed the leather wallet. His thumb slipped beneath the clasp and opened it. His eyes darted down and looked inside the wallet. The plastic sleeve revealed a driver's license photo.

VP Mortison took note of Robertson's downcast eyes and blurted out to Pierce, "It may be too late, Morgan."

Robertson looked up. The face in the photo was still in the restaurant and belonged to the young woman at the far table, the one dressed in the elegant black monogrammed sweater. Casually she would glance at the menu and then anxiously survey the entrance.

Nervously, Pierce held the folded paper across the table. "Mr. Robertson, we'd like to offer your firm a retainer to represent us if the case should arise."

Leisurely, Tom reached over and took the folded paper and opened it… a check. His eyes slowly looked up and waited.

Pierce licked his lips nervously. "Do you see enough zeroes?"

Robertson gently laid the paper on the table and spoke for the first time. "And what will my firm do for you?"

Pierce and Mortison looked at each other. Mortison replied, "Nothing."

Robertson looked down again at the wallet, his eyes noting the tiny paper inserted inside the plastic sleeve on the license, a fortune from a fortune cookie. He resisted the urge to smile. His eyes darted across the restaurant to the young woman at the far table. "_A romantic. I like that."_

Mortison watched Robertson's eyes divert again, turned and whispered to the CEO, "I told you it wasn't enough."

Robertson took a sip of the whiskey and watched the two men squirm. His eyes darted down again as he flipped through the plastic sleeves, noting the membership cards to several professional organizations and various photos.

Finally Robertson grew impatient and stated, "So all of this is for nothing."

"Well, it's really more than it seems," Mortison began and watched Robertson's eyes lower again. He elbowed Pierce, his eyes urgently appealing for help.

Pierce stepped in. "We hope it's not too late. We've heard rumors from a few of our stockholders."

Tom's finger moved across the smooth black surface of the top grain cowhide. The golden bar clasp was clean and elegant, like the woman in the black sweater, her body lean and elegant like his favorite black Jaguar coupe.

Lazily he looked up at them, growing tired of their groveling.

Pierce finally worked up the courage to say it. "Will you take our retainer, Mr. Robertson?"

Tom sighed wearily, glanced down at the check and began. "If Radco becomes a client, we would be precluded from taking on another client intent on acquiring your company…. a conflict of interest. Your retainer is a means of keeping me from sitting on the other side of the table in a corporate takeover."

The Radco executives nervously watched. Then Pierce finally spoke, "With all due respect, sir, you're a formidable adversary. We want you on our side not theirs."

A slight smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he watched her across the floor. "_Just like my Jaguar, fast, sleek, and elegant."_

Taking the check from the table, the attorney folded and slipped it inside his jacket pocket with a sigh of relief from the men across the table.

"Thank you, Mr. Robertson!" Morgan Pierce began. "Having you on our side will give our shareholders great relief."

Tom's eyes narrowed, his finger once again lovingly caressing the soft leather of the wallet. "You're a small fish in a big pond, gentlemen. It never pays to feel relief. You're still tomorrow's meal, remember that," he warned.

The Radco executives slipped from the booth and stood, their hands extended. "Thank you, Mr. Robertson, for taking our retainer and for your words of advice."

The lawyer nodded, shook their hands, and briefly watched them hurry across the restaurant floor. His eyes moved back to the far table and noticed the brunette still sitting alone, nursing a glass of wine.

"_Yes, gentlemen, tomorrow's meal." _He knew the ocean well. Currently Radco was too small to be noticed by the top predators. Once they acquired that military contract and flourished, they would pop up as a worthy acquisition. By then, their status as a client would have ended and they would be ripe for the taking. He could wait.

Methodically the young woman checked the entrance and ran slender fingers across her clothes, then her hair. "_Waiting for a secret lover…..perhaps?" _Robertson's eyes took in every nuance and detail. "_No, the table is not secluded enough. A close friend, an associate, with whom she may have both a public and a private relationship …..that's possible. A woman like you will not sit alone for long."_

Slowly he pulled the wallet from his lap. Cradling it lovingly in his hands, he brought the leather to his nose and inhaled the heady perfume still clinging to it. For a moment his eyes closed, enjoying the alluring scent. _"Chanel #5. How exquisite and so feminine, like cashmere, seamed stockings, and pearls." _

The wallet slipped from his hand into his jacket pocket as he finished the last of the whiskey and stood and walked to the far table.

Della had ordered a glass of wine after receiving a message from the waiter that Perry was running late. Turning the stem of her wine glass, she felt a presence standing by the table.

"Pardon me, are you Della Street?" the man asked politely.

The secretary looked up and knew the routine. It was either a potential client who recalled seeing her with Perry Mason or a process server. Her eyes moved over the tall man in the gray tailored suit, his dark brown eyes sparkling, the gray hair flowing back from a handsome face. He looked neither. But the odds were in favor of a process server. Her mind raced through the possible cases as her eyes rolled.

"O.K. let's get this over with," she announced half-heartedly, extending her hand for the papers.

Tom stood passively, his voice firm. "I'm sorry, Miss Street, but I'll need some form of identification, please."

"Oh, all right," she answered wearily, reaching for her purse.

The lawyer watched her search grow more frantic. Casually he sat down in the booth with her and pulled out the wallet.

Della noticed the movement and looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. Then she sighed with relief at the sight before her. "That's my wallet!" she exclaimed. "Where did you find it?"

His head casually gestured toward the far booth. Her eyes followed. Now within touching distance, he realized she was even more beautiful. His eyes studied her delicate features and admired the flawless skin.

Feeling his eyes and physical closeness, the secretary turned and locked eyes with her visitor.

"Smooth, elegant, and beautiful," his voice growing softer, his eyes guiding hers to the wallet in his hand. "And the wallet is attractive too."

A smile pulled at her lips while she studied his intense brown eyes and rugged features.

He lifted the wallet to his nose and inhaled the perfume one last time. "Chanel # 5, I believe. My dear Coco certainly knows the fragrance of romance." He watched her cheeks flush slightly at his candid observation. "And then of course there's the treasured fortune."

Della's eyes widened in alarm and saw him smile. "Don't be concerned, Miss Street…I didn't read it…..The fact that it was there was enough," his voice reassured her as he handed her the wallet. "You see I love a romantic and I learned long ago a gentleman should never pry into a lady's belongings. Some things in this world should remain a mystery."

"Thank you…." Della responded gratefully, waiting for his name.

"Tom."

"Thank you, Tom. I appreciate your valor." She smiled sweetly.

He nodded, his eyes moving over the monogramed DS that graced the front of her sweater.

"I know you're waiting for someone." He began to rise. "You don't impress me as a woman who sits alone for long."

Her eyes darted over the tailored suit that enhanced his broad shoulders, the red silk tie, the Italian white dress shirt, and gold tie pin. "I could say the same for you, Tom." She watched his lips pull into a suave smile. Then she invited. "My lunch date is running late; you can stay if you like."

He eased back into his seat and became comfortable. "So I've piqued your curiosity have I?"

Sipping her wine, Della smiled coyly. "I do love a mystery."

He laughed softly. "I bet you do."

"You graciously returned my wallet. In return, I could at least give you the gift of my time. Tell me, Tom, what do you do?"

"I acquire things."

"_Good looks, effusive charm, easy sexuality and mysterious manner, why do you remind me of someone so familiar?" _Della pondered.

"Acquiring things can be very expensive, requiring a great deal of money." The secretary observed while gently gliding her manicured finger across her wallet, then softly added, "So what drives you to acquire….is it the money…..the power…. or both?"

Her eyes moved over him and he felt his pulse quicken, his lips pulling to the side in a boyish grin. "You are very good," he whispered seductively.

Della's gave him a sideways look. Feeling his eyes watching her with fascination, she faced him again and lowered her eye lashes. "So I've been told."

"I bet you have. The man who doesn't remind you daily of how good you are should be flogged."

"Flogged?" Her eye brow cocked upward at the comment.

"You heard me right, flogged, within inches of his life. Of course, I'm not that kind of man. I know a good thing when I see it. As I said, I acquire things, and I know what I like and what's worth having, whether it be a fine racing machine, or….."

"or….. what else?" Della asked, toying with him, enjoying the mental gymnastics.

"Anything that's worth having."

Della slipped her wallet back in her purse and asked. "Anything?"

"You're not going to be easy are you?" he laughed. "How would you like to work for me? I guarantee I won't keep you waiting, just name your price and conditions."

Suddenly a tall man with piercing blue eyes swept in, touching Della Street's elbow. "I'm sorry I'm late, Della."

Tom rose as she began the introductions. "Tom, this is my boss, Perry Mason."

The older lawyer fought to keep his composure when he heard the name.

"Perry Mason this is Tom…." Della looked up to her new acquaintance, "….. a corporate lawyer." Robertson noted her keen observation skills before reaching in his pocket and pulling out a business card and handing it to Mason.

Perry looked at the card and read it out loud. "Robertson, Stein, Moore and Whittier."

Tom gave an awkward smile and announced, "I'm Tom Robertson."

Della and Perry looked at each other, then at the tall man standing before them.

Perry Mason offered the older lawyer his hand. "Mr. Robertson, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Tom felt the strength in the lawyer's hand and the intensity of his gaze as Mason sized up the man who had been sitting with his secretary.

Mason noted a slight flushing of Della's cheeks.

"Mr. Mason, I've been enjoying the company of your delightful Miss Street."

"Perry, Tom ….. Mr. Robertson kindly returned my wallet. I guess it fell out in the booth over there."

Mason smiled urbanely. "Thank you, Mr. Robertson, for helping my secretary."

Robertson nodded. "I don't want to intrude on your lunch meeting and I'm glad I could be of service." He turned his attention to Della Street and offered her his hand.

The secretary smiled sweetly as she allowed his hand to slip around hers and watched in amazement as he bent and gently kissed the top of it, his eyes meeting hers. "It's been delightful, Della." For a moment she felt breathless, then laughed nervously.

Robertson rose and faced the younger attorney, whose eyes had taken on a steely gleam. "And it's been especially nice meeting you, Mr. Mason. I wonder if you'd mind meeting me later this evening for drinks at Harry's Place. I've been hearing a great deal about your cases and would enjoy your company. " Robertson paused and glanced in Della Street's direction. "That is if you don't have other obligations."

Perry's eyes narrowed, his fingers gently folding over his closed fist. A smile slowly pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Of course not, Mr. Robertson. You've shown great kindness to Miss Street. It seems only fitting that I return the favor."

"Splendid," Tom replied. "Six p.m., Harry's Place."

Mason nodded in agreement as the older man politely bowed, turned and walked to the restaurant exit.

Perry Mason slowly sat down in the booth, his eyes turning to meet Della Street's. "What was that all about?"

The secretary took a sip of her wine and sighed, "That, Counselor, is one smooth operator!"

Paul Drake's Office

_Later that afternoon….._

"Hey, Perry, we could have met in your office," Paul remarked, lighting his cigarette before leaning back in his desk chair.

The lawyer paced a few steps and turned. "No, Paul, I wanted to meet here. It's Della."

"Oh, no, you're not getting me mixed up in hiding anything from Della. She has a sixth sense about these things," the detective warned, shaking his head.

The lawyer shoved his hands in his pockets as he paced the floor; his eyes narrowed in thought. "I'm not keeping secrets; she'll know soon enough. It's just…." His voice trailed off as he stopped and looked at Paul. "It involves Laura Donaldson."

"Oh!" Paul's eyebrows shot up. "Yeah, there's nothing like discussing an old lover to get another woman's blood boiling. Yep, we better discuss it down here….. out of throwing range." Paul heaved a tired sigh as he pulled out his notebook and flicked ashes into the metal tray on his desk.

Mason shook his head, his voice slow and thoughtful. "No, Della's not a thrower; she's the cool, quiet type."

"Glacial?"

Perry nodded in agreement.

"Well, I do have that information you were wanting."

Mason stopped and sat in the chair near the detective's desk, his fingers running across his lips, eyes narrowing.

"You sure know how to pick'em, Perry," Drake announced.

Mason grimaced and waved his hand for the detective to continue.

"The law firm of Robertson, Stein, Moore and Whittier is one of the largest corporate law firms in the state of Colorado with satellite offices along the west coast. They specialize in mergers and acquisitions. Which is a nice name for hostile takeovers." Paul waved his fingers around. "It's a legal thing, you know. For those of us pounding the street we call it strong-arm robbery. For you legal types in the corporate world it's a hostile takeover."

Perry motioned him to get on with it. "I know about the hostile takeovers, Paul. What about Tom Robertson?"

Drake turned the page, and glanced up at the lawyer. "Do you have a while?"

"I'm having a drink with the man in an hour. Let's just call it a hunch, but I want to know this man, what makes him tick, before we sit down together. Yeah, I have the time."

Paul pulled out a drawer, propped his legs on it, and leaned comfortably back in his chair before beginning his narrative. "Tom Robertson attended Harvard Law on a scholarship. That's right, a scholarship, no old money alumni. Top ten percent of his class, Law Review, you name it. Our guy has a fondness for beautiful women and fast cars." Paul looked up from his notes and laughed, "Don't we all."

Mason remained focused, legs stretched out, staring at the tips of his shoes.

The detective continued. "Seems our boy has a weakness for brunettes, met and married one, Margaret Sutton, a Wellesley graduate. Robertson didn't hit it off with the east coast white shoe lawyers and decided to head west. Landed in Denver and brought in some of his law school brethren who were also outcasts. You know them: Stein, Moore, and Whittier. He's charming, shrewd, and a rough and tumble player." The detective grinned, as he looked up from his notepad, "Sounds like your mirror image, Perry."

For the first time the lawyer looked up and smiled. "Well, Della certainly noticed him."

"Uh oh, trouble in paradise?" Drake chuckled, then warned, "It gets more interesting. As I said, his firm specializes in hostile takeovers. He loves a good scuffle. An ordinary case bores him, leaves them to the younger associates.

He made his mark in the counting room for being both verbally and physically intimidating and was noted for his clever behind the scene maneuvering and posturing. Rumor has it that he grew up in a rough Philly neighborhood and learned to take care of himself from the local wise guys." Paul took a drag from his cigarette, flicked ashes in the tray and turned the page on his notes while Mason sat quietly, staring forward.

Drake looked over his notepad at Mason and continued. " The latest, 'acquisition', Gendyne, is one of the largest takeovers… ever… in Colorado."

Perry nodded, remembering Laura detailed account of Gendyne vs Omnicor.

Paul continued, "Seeing Robertson on the other side of the table and in the counting room is a company's worst nightmare. CEO's willingly pay large retainers to the firm to guarantee having him on their side of the table,…. they play the conflict of interest game to save their companies."

"Enemies?" Mason asked.

"I'll say, anyone who's ever crossed him. We found several who tried unearthing anything scandalous about the man. He's ruthless but seems to only stretch the established rules not break them.

As I said, he has a weakness for beautiful women, but no one has found any mistresses or affairs. Robertson and the misses appear publicly for social events and play the dutiful couple. The lawyer stays busy with the firm while the misses chairs charity balls, country club affairs, shopping, and the rest of the usual society lady stuff." Paul rolled his eyes over his notepad.

Perry glanced up at his friend and smiled. "I can see you really get into the high society life."

Paul chuckled. "Oh yeah, wondering what I'll wear for the next pirate's ball and fearing I won't see my picture in next week's society page keeps me awake on all those late night stake outs you have me do."

Mason softly chuckled and checked his watch.

"I think I mentioned Robertson's firm having satellite branches along the west coast," Drake continued. "It's no accident that the head of each branch has been acquired from another law firm. My sources tell me Robertson has headhunters that raid the pool of talented lawyers from competing firms. Offers are quietly made to the best and brightest attorneys, offers that are difficult or impossible for them to refuse. To sweeten the deal, a significant sum of money is offered to the raided firm as a form of compensation for the removal of their talent."

"Legal headhunters," Mason repeated; his eyes narrowed in thought, taking in and organizing Paul's information. The lawyer stood and smoothed down his jacket and tie.

"Now here's the clincher and yes, it involves 'you know who'."

Mason stopped his grooming and locked eyes with the detective. "Shoot."

"Tom has a lawyer son, Glen, who's also in the firm. Several years back the son's wife died of cancer and he's now remarried."

Paul paused and placed the notebook on his desk. Mason stood patiently.

"Glen's wife is Laura Donaldson, the newest Mrs. Robertson."

Paul watched the face of his long-time friend and found only his courtroom face….the one void of emotion.

Mason knew Laura had married but just now remembered the details. Sitting in the barbershop, he had glanced over the society section of the newspaper, stopping at the mention of her name. Normally he skipped over the section, but that day it was the only part of the paper not being read. He wasn't surprised Della hadn't mentioned it.

Laura's marriage bothered him in a strange way and not the obvious one. Weddings, like the one described, took months of planning so the engagement must have occurred fairly soon after her visit. Her last words to him, 'I'll always love you_',_ made him wonder if she really loved this man, Glen, or if she'd ever truly loved him. She'd certainly moved on quickly enough.

Had she simply used sex and her courtroom skills to try and 'acquire' him? She loved money and anything that reeked of power and success. She had never accepted or tried to understand the satisfaction he got from his type of law practice but had continually tried to persuade him to her way of thinking. Had their relationship been nothing more than a challenge she needed to win?

Perry's eyes narrowed as he remembered Della's interview and how quickly the outcome had answered the question of him closing the office and moving to Denver. A decision he'd never regretted. Had he ever really loved Laura or had it simply always been an excitingly strong physical attraction to a woman who was his intellectual equal and nothing more? He shook away the melancholy thoughts. It had been fun and stimulating at the time but nothing compared to what he had now.

Paul finished his narrative. "In a nut-shell, Perry, you're drinking with Laura's father-in-law. Have fun!"

~~~tbc~~~


	2. Chapter 2

_PG-13, Smoking, drinking, pool hustling, legal maneuvering and colorful language._

_The Wallet-Chapter 2_

_Harry's Place_

Harry's, one of the first bars within walking distance of the courthouse and several city services, was established in the late 1930's. Over time, it had become a regular after work destination for white collar and civil servants at all levels of government. On any evening, suits and uniforms of every description could be found clustered along the bar, nestled in cozy booths, gathered around tables, or boisterously playing pool in the billiard area.

It was near the end of the week. A small group sat talking, nursing their drinks at the bar and casually glancing over at another small group who was watching the only action that evening, a game of high stakes 8 ball on table one. A young hustler had worked all afternoon taking several hundred dollars from anyone who could be suckered into a game. The patrons of Harry's were anxiously watching the final shot in a winner take all game with his latest competitor.

The cocky young man, dressed in tight jeans and a silky red shirt, opened to reveal several large gold chains, stood casually and confidently to the side of the pool table. A small group watched anxiously as the final shot was being set-up. None of the enraptured acknowledged the entrance of a newcomer.

Perry Mason opened the outer door, blocking the blowing rain, and then quickly closed it behind him. He knocked the rain from his hat and coat before hanging them in the alcove. A few eyes looked up from their food as he made his way along the booths heading to the bar and noted that its patrons were watching the pool table as well as the small group assembled observing the action. The attorney checked his watch and realized he was a little late, the storm slowing his trip to Harry's.

His eyes scanned the bar for Robertson without success until he turned toward the poolroom. The older attorney stood chalking his cue stick, broad shoulders squared, a determined set to his chin. The tip of his rolled red necktie peeked out of his shirt pocket like a coiled snake, the tie matching the red suspenders on his gray slacks.

Earlier, the hustler had bragged about his winnings and had dared to call Robertson 'old man'. The lawyer's eyes sparked with anger, his voice restrained as he publically challenged the young man; he would match the young man's winnings in a winner take all game. On the corner of the next pool table, a stack of twenty dollar bills was weighted down by a whiskey glass. A third party watched over the potential winnings of close to one thousand dollars.

Sidling up behind the standing crowd, Mason moved to gain a clear view of the table and took note of the placement of both the black 8 ball and the white cue ball. The alignment was way off, the side pocket at a bad angle. The knack of striking it just so was key in keeping the cue ball from joining the 8 and scratching the game. The young hustler grew nervous as Robertson eyed the table, carefully chalking the tip of his stick.

"We don't have all day, old man. You know how this is going to play out," he taunted, hoping to distract and unnerve the older player, thus giving him the advantage. Gasps and groans were heard in the crowd at the young man's bravado.

Robertson positioned himself along the table's edge, ignoring the taunts, as he bent and moved the stick between his fingers.

"What's he doing?" someone whispered from behind Mason.

Perry's eyes narrowed, noting the shot did seem odd but not impossible. A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he realized it would be one he'd try if he were caught between a rock and a hard place. The smile broadened as he recalled all too well the challenge of those tight places and the mental gymnastics in maneuvering around them. He felt his own adrenalin rise as he placed himself in the other attorney's position.

Someone whispered to the people behind the gathered observers to keep the noise down.

Robertson's body became rigid. Precisely he flexed and moved his arm; the cue slipped back and forth between his fingers. The tip moved up and around the curved surface of the white ball as he adjusted its position and calculated the speed of its impending rotation.

Mason watched the methodical movement. His own mind visualized the spin the ball would have to take as it hit the cushioned rail, careening off and striking the outer edge of the black 8 ball and propelling it backward and into the corner pocket.

Robertson called the pocket and struck the cue ball, sending it on its path, the room so quiet the impact could be heard. Mason watched the white ball strike the rail and bank off, striking the edge of the 8 ball and causing it to spin and rotate toward the corner pocket. The cue traveled down the table toward the center pocket. A simultaneous gasp could be heard as the 8 ball dropped in the hole, the white cue still traveling, its momentum slowing as it reached the center pocket. Then it stopped, only an inch from the opening's edge.

The 'old man' stood and dropped the end of the cue stick to the floor, his eyes darting to his challenger who suddenly resembled an adolescent boy in his silky red shirt and jeans. The third party who had guarded the cash picked up the winnings and handed it over to Robertson.

Not even looking at the money, his eyes still on the young hustler, he shoved it in his pant's pocket and laid the pool cue on the table. The young man stepped back a few steps but stopped when he saw the attorney's outstretched hand. Sheepishly he extended his hand and felt a tug as Robertson pulled him toward him, their faces now within inches of each other, the attorney's lips within inches of his ear. Mason watched closely as the older man whispered something into his ear and watched the color rapidly drain from the youngster's face.

Robertson abruptly stepped back and turned to the crowd. "The drinks are on the house." He walked to the bar and pulled out the wad of bills and placed it on the counter for the bartender. "Jimmy, rounds for every one till it's gone. I'd like a bottle of Jim Beam Black if you please and two glasses."

"Yes, sir," the bartender replied, taking the money from the counter and returning with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. The crowd pressed toward the bar, unaware the young hustler had quickly slipped out the door and outside into the storm.

Mason moved to Robertson's side. "Not bad, Mr. Robertson."

Tom Robertson turned to Mason and smiled. "Mr. Mason, how nice of you to brave the elements to join me tonight. Let's find a table with a little privacy."

The older attorney led the way, carrying the bottle and glasses. He picked up his suit jacket from the adjoining pool table, found an empty corner table in the billiard room, and sat down.

With a twist, he broke the seal on the bottle of whiskey and poured the amber liquid into their glasses. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting," he began. "I had to be 'hustled'. The whole process took a little longer than expected."

Perry nodded, leaning back in the chair, fingers laced together in front of him. "I didn't mind. Like everyone else, I was enjoying the show. It seems the young man suddenly grew ill and had to leave. I believe it was right after you whispered in his ear."

Robertson swirled the liquid in the glass, a smile spreading across his face. "You noticed that did you. Sometimes I have to give a little fatherly advice about manners and respecting your elders. Where I grew up you never disrespected your elders." His dark eyes narrowed as he watched Mason's amazing blue ones. "But then you already know that, don't you? I'm sure part of this afternoon was spent doing your homework….or having someone do it for you."

Perry's own eyes narrowed, noting the contradiction between the smiling lips and the cool penetrating dark eyes, and remained silent. "_I bet you gave him more than friendly advice by the way the color drained from his smug little face. Losing his money was the least of his concerns."_

Roberson shrugged, and took a sip of the whiskey. "Drink up, Mason. You know it seems awkward, this Mr. Mason, Mr. Robertson thing. Call me Tom."

The younger attorney smiled slightly and took a sip of the whiskey. "O.K., Tom."

Tom leaned back in his chair, took the bottle and refilled their glasses. "I'm afraid I have a penchant for bourbon whiskey among other things. Let's drink a toast." Mason nodded, the men bringing their glasses together in a toast.

"To fast women, beautiful horses, and bourbon whiskey. God Bless Kentucky."

Mason finished the glass and chuckled. "_Laura's father-in-law, amazing. I wonder what she thinks of this man? Is_ _the__son anything like his father?"_

"Do you believe in fate?" Robertson asked studying Mason, noting the lawyer's handsome features, broad shoulders, and cautious manner. He decided the man's eyes were his most expressive part, both warm and cool. "_My little tigress, I can see why you are attracted to him. He would captivate you with his charm and good looks while presenting you with a mental and intellectual challenge you couldn't resist." _

"It depends. I'd like to think I control my fate, rather than it controlling me."

Tom nodded. "A practical man, I like that. But you have to admit that there are events that take place around us that present us with unexpected opportunities."

"Like the young hustler?" Mason asked.

Tom extended his index finger in the attorney's direction. "Exactly! He came in this bar as the player, suckering his victims. Then as fate would have it, he opened his mouth to the wrong man. The player was played. The little bastard had the nerve to call me 'old man'."

Perry's eyes twinkled and he shook his head. "Old man, eh. That was tempting fate."

"I believe in fate, Perry." Tom stared off, his voice growing soft and wistful. "Several years ago I met Thomas 'Bull' Johnson fly fishing for brown trout on the South Platte. What a marvelous river: cold, fast-moving, and the most beautiful country on earth. I remember Bull moved into our pool as Moore and I were gathering our gear. We chatted at bit and hit it off right away. He told me he had a young lawyer with him, his protégé and gestured up stream. I realize now, that young lawyer was you."

He turned and captured Mason's eyes with his. "I couldn't see your face as you stood in the pool upstream, but I watched you work your line and rod, broad skillful sweeps mimicking the Golden Stonefly adult. You can tell a great deal about a man when he works a fly. You can tell if he's patient, skilled, determined, and thoughtful. I was impressed with you. I told Bull and he agreed you had promise, but I don't think he wanted to share you with me. Fate almost brought us together so many years ago. I wonder how things might have been if it had."

Perry's eyes narrowed, matching the intensity in the older lawyer's gaze, when suddenly Tom looked away. "I wish we could have met." Robertson's voice took on an edgy tone. "Damn, Moore. As always… he was in a hurry….. had to rush back and meet some woman… some redhead he was chasing." Abruptly his mood changed as he shook his head regretfully and smiled.

Mason felt an odd mix of comfort and unease, similar to the feeling a snake charmer experiences with a swaying cobra. The swaying, the music, all seem easy and tranquil till the snake breaks with the expected response and unexpectedly strikes, delivering its lethal dose. Tom's scene with the young hustler played over and over in his mind: the extended hand, the young man's face near Tom's, its color quickly draining. Like the cobra, he charmed the young man to a handshake then struck with words eliciting fear.

"Then again, we've been given a second chance." Tom stated as his hand slipped inside his coat pocket and pulled out a long checkbook and laid it on the table.

Perry sipped from his glass, carefully keeping his reaction to the man's suggestion deep within himself. He studied the checkbook and the man. Robertson was fit for his age, a striking man with silvery gray hair and a flawless patrician face. The man had presence. He had acquired his fortune through grit, brawn, and cunning. "_You were correct, Della; he's one smooth operator."_

"It's been bothering me all this time why you turned down my invitation to interview for my firm. You would be a senior partner by now. Maybe the timing or incentive hasn't been right. Maybe meeting this afternoon is the opportunity that's been waiting to happen." He leaned slightly forward. "You see, Perry, I'm a man who know what he likes….and will go to great lengths to get it."

His eyes swept over Mason's face noting every nuance, every facial tick, watching for a reaction and getting none. "I've found that everything in this world has a price. I think you know that, Perry. In your area of expertise, the price is the ultimate price, a life… murder. With the right price and conditions anything can be acquired. That's what I do. I acquire things and I'm very good at it."

Perry felt an icy cloud form between them, the muscles in his jaws flexed, his eyes narrowing. Robertson's fingers gently moved over the checkbook, his eyes watching Mason as he continued. "I think fate was working today when I found Miss Street's wallet. A simple event, the returning of a missing wallet has brought us together again." He paused slightly. "And now the opportunity… you see my secretary, Greta, wants to retire." Tom opened the checkbook, slipped out the pen and began to fill in the check and stopped after the amount, leaving the signature line blank.

Mason's heart raced_. "What the hell? _

"I feel it's only fair that you be compensated, Perry."

Perry Mason's eyes narrowed beneath a furrowed brow. "Compensated for what, Robertson?"

Tom looked surprised and turned the check around for the lawyer to see. "Why it's your compensation for Della Street. An experienced and highly trained legal secretary is hard to find and ones like your Miss Street are even rarer.

Do you see enough zeroes, Perry? You could upgrade your office space, hire several secretaries and have enough left over for a thirty two foot sail boat." The older lawyer watched his companion's eyes widen slightly then take on a frosty gleam. He continued his narrative. "I need a new secretary and your Miss Street has impressed me greatly with her keen insight and secretarial credentials. Don't worry, I'll make sure all her needs and conditions are met. As a matter of fact, she'll be my personal assistant; she'll have the best of everything. She will travel with me where ever I go… and I travel very well."

Mason pushed the glass across the table, his eyes blazing. "You've got a hell'va lot of nerve, Robertson. I'm not for sale and neither is Miss Street. If you'd truly done your homework, you would know my character, my ethics, and my friendships aren't for sale. I can't be bought!"

The older man stared blankly, watching the barely contained fire and fury in his tablemate before he reached across and gripped Mason's forearm. He felt the lawyer bristle and stiffen beneath his touch, on the verge of striking him. Tightening his grip further, he quickly leaned closer to Mason's face and whispered, "Don't worry Perry. If Della were my secretary, I'd be in love with her too."

Robertson abruptly released his grip, leaned back and enjoyed watching the shocked expression spread across the other man's face. Then he stated firmly. "You heard me. You're in love with her, and for you, there will never be enough zeroes on this check." Tom ripped the check from the book, folded it and slipped it in the lawyer's breast pocket.

For a moment, Perry Mason felt as if the air had been pressed from his lungs. He glanced down at his pocket and then back up at Robertson. The older man took a sip of the bourbon and smiled; his voice soft and wistful. "I can see why Laura loves you….why she worked so hard to pave a way for you…..wanted you to choose being with her over anything or anyone else. It was a victory she relished."

He motioned with his glass. "The fire, the fury, the devotion, …. you are her 'ideal man'." Tom's laugh held a bitter edge as he mused, "and all the rest of us… are mere mortals."

Perry watched Robertson slip the checkbook back in his jacket pocket. His eyelids lowered as he studied the older attorney relax and enjoy his little game.

"You're a son of a bitch," Mason breathed.

"Yes, I am," Tom admitted, then laughed and added, "I'd still like for us to trout fish sometime. And bring Della along; I'd like to see if her talents extend to fishing."

"Yes, I believe in fate," he sighed. He gave Perry a knowing look. "When I discovered the delightful Miss Street was your secretary after observing how she anxiously watched and waited for you, I understood why you turned down my interview. You had found what you wanted right here. You are a lucky man. I envy you."

Mason smiled and took out the check and looked at it. "I can imagine you do envy me, Tom. In your case, you do seem to have a quite a dilemma." He paused and could see he had piqued the attorney's interest. "You seem to appreciate and understand what makes Laura tick very well, far more than I ever could. And now that I've meet you, I can see why you were interested in her and I think that interest wasn't solely professional."

For a moment, Robertson ceased to breathe. His features softened as their eyes met, the protective shield lowered. His lips pulled into an awkward smile. "Fate can be cruel, can't it?"

Mason heaved a sigh, feeling the bitter irony of Tom's situation and empathized with the man. It was hard for a man not to be sucked into Laura's appeal unless there was something much stronger pulling him another way, replacing the desire. "Yes it can." Swirling the amber liquid in his glass, Perry drained it and placed the check back in his pocket. Game over.

Tom inhaled deeply, cleared his voice, composing himself. He glanced down at his watch and then nodded at the check and added, "We've had our fun, Perry. Now you and Miss Street can have yours. I believe she's finished watching Casablanca by now; you'd better hurry."

Mason slipped from the table and stood, amazed by their strange rollercoaster ride. Tom stood and extended his hand across the table and the lawyer shook it.

"I've enjoyed meeting both you and your delightful Miss Street. Please give Della my warmest regards. You're masterful, Perry. If I'm ever charged with murder, you'd be the first I'd call."

Mason shook his head, turned, and walked pass the group at the bar who were still enjoying the round of drinks complements of Tom Robertson. The lawyer paused a moment and glanced back into the billiard room, watching as Tom casually refilled his glass of bourbon, slipped a gold cigarette case and lighter from his jacket, lit the cigarette, leaned back with his feet propped in a chair, his eyes staring off into space. Mason smiled slightly.

~~~tbc~~~


	3. Chapter 3

The Wallet—-Chapter 3

_Della Street's apartment_

Mason clamped on his hat and pulled his jacket collar up before opening the door to Harry's alcove and making a mad dash through the storm. The rain hurled down in torrents as he ran up the street and around the corner, jerked open the car door and hopped inside. The water dripped from the edges of his hat. His shoes were totally soaked and he didn't care. Staring out the foggy windshield, he realized he felt a strange mix of anger, empathy and euphoria. The last hour had been one wild ride with Tom Robertson.

First, he was angry at the man's supposition that he could be bought. Tom certainly had nerve in thinking he could be a legal headhunter and lure Della away. But was he really trying to 'acquire' Della? No. Robertson had driven home his salient point with precision, as precise as Mason's own talents in eliciting a confession from a guilty witness. Robertson wanted Mason to know how lucky he was to be in love with someone like Della ….and to have her return it. Perry felt euphoric. The check was a symbol of how there would never be enough zeroes to compensate what he had with her.

However, Perry had needed to play the game, to deliver the final blow when the other lawyer had revealed his soft underbelly. The result had been bittersweet. Tom was in love with a woman they both knew he could never have and there was nothing he could do about it. Perry empathized with him and understood his torment.

Robertson had proven his case. Mason knew he was to be envied. He was a lucky man. He'd found a treasure in Della and was free to pursue her and build a future with her. She had filled all the voids in his life, made him a better lawyer, a better man and at the same time, found her own mutual satisfaction as she both thrived and blossomed in the practice's challenging schedule and difficult workload. Together, through their shared goals and efforts, they had created a flourishing and respected legal practice. Their office efficiency and after-hours' smoothness on the dance floor, was reflected in the courtroom, where they easily moved with a succinct and unified purpose.

_Mason, you're one hell of a_ _lucky guy!_ His lips pulled into loop-sided little grin as he slipped the key into the ignition, spurred on by Tom's admonition. _"He should hurry. Della would be finishing Casablanca about now."_

The lawyer put the big engine through its paces, propelling the car along the rainy streets, arriving in record time at Della's apartment building. When he got there, however, he fought the desire to jump out and run to be with her. Something was niggling at the edge of his brain and he could no longer ignore it.

Years of examining every piece of evidence from every angle to gain insight to every possible chance of victory for a client fighting for their freedom or the right not to sit on death row was winning over the desire to ignore Tom Robertson's words. Perry gave up the fight and recalled all of Tom's key words.

"_I can see why Laura loves you…... …It was a victory she relished ...….. all the rest of us...… are mere mortals."_

Was Tom referring not only about himself but also his own son as mere mortals? He had said 'loves' not 'loved'. Did she marry a man she didn't love and was Glen as aware of it as his father? Had she wanted him in Denver to win some personal victory? Sure, they had their differences but had he been totally blind to certain parts of her character or had he simply ignored them because of their physical attraction?

He went back over Laura's overtures. There was no denying her desire to rekindle what they once had, give them another chance. And yet, the elaborate wedding had occurred in less than a year. Which if the reports from some of his colleagues were right, those events took close to a year to organize since so many of the reception halls were booked many months in advance.

Had she married on the rebound or already been engaged? 'No', he didn't even want to consider the other possibility. But if it was true, then Della was a gift beyond comprehension.

Carefully he retrieved the check from his pocket, took out a pen, placed the check on the dash and signed the check with an elegant flourish, Tom Robertson and in the memo section printed, Della Street. Placing the check in his jacket pocket, he jerked open the car door and made a mad dash to the entrance.

Skipping the elevator, he took two steps at a time to reach her floor and stood for a moment at her door. Catching his breath, he noticed the water dripping from the brim of his hat and felt it soaking through his shoes and didn't care. He was outside Della's door and that was all that mattered.

Her apartment was her sanctuary; it was solely hers, orderly and feminine. He had lovingly explored every physical part of her and still she remained a mystery to him and her apartment a symbol of her feminine mystique.

He started to bring up his hands to quietly knock when he heard the faint sound of a television and music. For a moment he held his breath and listened, recognizing the tune .….. 'As Time Goes By'.

Perry shook his head. Robertson was to be admired; he had observed and inferred observed so much in a very short period of time. He was a worthy opponent.

Mason knocked, and seconds turned into centuries before he heard the sound of the television disappear and footsteps approaching the door. Slowly the door opened a crack, revealing a pair of hazel eyes.

"Perry?" Della whispered as her eyes swept by him. "Is Tom with you?"

His eyes moved over the damp wavy hair trailing across her forehead and realized she would be beautiful in any condition.

"No, I'm afraid it's just me. Am I too late?" he answered softly, noting the bathrobe she wore.

Her eyes moved over his wet and dripping form and opened the door. "Too late?" she chuckled. "It's never too late when you're involved and besides you're not going back out in this weather." She stood to the side for him to enter, scanning the hallway before closing the door.

Mason stood gingerly inside her apartment, taking great pains in removing his hat without spreading water everywhere. Della helped him shed his coat, took his hat, and hung both of them up to drip in her bathroom. Carefully the lawyer took off his wet shoes and set them on the tile in her kitchen. He removed the check, and placed it in his shirt pocket before hanging his jacket and tie over a nearby chair.

He scanned the orderly interior of her apartment, the stylish placement of the furniture, lamps, mirrors, photographs, and mementos. The soft pinks and subtle greens were everywhere. Returning to the living room, he found her nest on the small couch: a box of tissues, a TV guide, an open box of Lindt chocolates and a foamy footbath at the base of the couch.

Della entered the room and stopped, taking note of his scrutiny of her space and gave a throaty laugh. "It's not very glamorous is it? I imagine most of the secretaries in LA are home soaking their feet and watching Casablanca tonight."

Perry's brow arced. "_So Tom was right."_

The secretary gracefully moved around him, scooted the footbath off to the corner, placed the box of tissues on the end table and curled up on the small couch, her back resting against the arm, her feet curled on the middle cushion.

"I don't know why I always watch it. I guess I'm a romantic at heart. I enjoy a good romance." She invited him to join her by patting the adjoining cushion of the couch. Mason sat down and flexed his socked feet. His arm draped over the back of the couch as he turned to face her.

"I suppose I should have called, but I needed to see you."

Della pulled the fleecy robe together, before looking up at him, a smile toying at her lips, "I thought you and Tom were going to make a night of it. This must be very important."

He sighed, his eyes moved over the soft curves of the robe and her bare feet, each slender toe painted a soft pink, the same color as the robe she wore. "_Even her feet are beautiful_." At the office he admired the pink nails peeking through her open toed heels and fantasized about running his fingers along her shapely calves and thighs. He forced his eyes and mind to refocus.

"It's very important." He replied reaching in to his shirt pocket, removing the check. "Tom Robertson made me a generous offer tonight."

He paused, wanting to build the suspense before he continued. "He is very impressed with you."

Again he paused and watched her satisfied smile and wondered if she were recalling their time alone before his arrival at the restaurant. The man was certainly plying the charm with Della playing the coquette when he approached their table.

In his courtroom manner, he held the crucial piece of evidence in his hand, turning the check around without letting her eyes process the details on the paper. "Yes, you've impressed him so much that he wants you as _his personal secretary_, to travel with him on his private jet."

Mason rolled his eyes slightly, a smile tugging at his lips. "I explained I'd miss you."

Della's eyes widened, her eyebrow cocked upward. "Really!" she exclaimed.

"Yes, really, Miss Street. And he feels I should be generously compensated for the loss of your services."

The secretary's brows cocked even further. "Really!" she repeated a second time. "Let me see that check!" Her fingers motioned for him to hand it over.

Perry handed the piece of paper to her and watched her face as she digested its details.

"I think there's enough there for new office space and furnishings, several confidential secretaries and a new forty foot sail boat for my trips to Catalina." He stated matter-of-factly, his eyes twinkling while his face fought to remain passive.

Della used the check like a fan. "Forty foot sail boat?"

Mason became thoughtful. "I think a forty footer should be big enough, don't you?"

"Oh, it's big enough," she replied, her eyes rolling to the ceiling, her voice deep and sultry. "Let me ask you this, Mr. Mason. Will that forty foot sail boat massage your shoulders, anticipate and satisfy your every want and need plus keep you warm at night?"

The lawyer's eyes narrowed as he gently stroked his chin in thought. "Probably not."

Della pursed her lips together. "On the other hand, you have kept me waiting so many times I've lost count. Tom promised he'd never keep me waiting and flying in that private jet could be lots of fun."

"You mean flying by the seat of your pants isn't satisfying?" Mason asked incredulously.

"Compared to a jet, Counselor, you have got to be kidding."

Perry turned toward her, reached out and touched her foot with his fingertips, gently massaging the ball of her left one. Della's face became dreamy, her feet extending toward him, allowing them to slip between his legs where his fingers continued their gentle kneading.

"That's very good," she whispered, her lips parted, eyes heavy. She peeked at him before continuing. "Tom says I'm very good."

His fingers gently massaged the ball of her left foot, enjoying her look of contentment. Noting his silence, she continued, "He says I should be told each day how good I am. And the man who doesn't do so should be flogged within an inch of his life." Her eyes opened and watched his reaction, the toes on her errant right foot gently moving across the fly of his trousers.

"_Oh, you are so very bad, Della Street."_

"Flogged, huh?" Mason felt his body respond to her touch as he replied. "Tom Robertson seems to be a very wise man." A contented moan escaped her lips; her eyes watched his fingers work their magic.

"So how good am I?" Della asked placing the check on the end table while the toes on the errant foot continued their gentle caress.

His massaging fingers slowed, along with his breathing, her eyes capturing his in a knowing embrace, her eyebrow cocking upward.

"Tell me Mr. Mason, how good am I," her voice soft and seductive. "Did you see enough zeroes on that check?"

He stifled a moan, his fingers gently taking the right foot in his hands, controlling its wanderings. His eyes closed momentarily, forcing his mind to ignore the tightness in his groin, and with a fluid motion he slipped to his knees on the floor in front of her.

Della reached out, her fingers gently smoothed back a lock of moist hair that had fallen across his forehead, her fingertips lingering, trailing along his cheek.

"No, Della, there will never be enough zeroes, not ever. I had to come tonight; I had to tell you how much I love you and how much I value and appreciate what you've brought to my life."

Della started to respond but paused at the intense sincerity that radiated from the man. Something besides the check had happened tonight. She reached over and outlined his lips with her finger. Whatever it was it didn't matter.

"My dear, wet Perry, you are such a romantic," she murmured, caressing his cheek. "How I do love you." Gently she took his hand and slipped it between the folds of her robe, against warm, bare skin, allowing his fingers to lovingly explore the soft curve of her breast, waist, and hip.

"Now let me show you how much I love you," she invited, her arms circling his neck. "You remember the way don't you?"

The robe parted as his hand moved beneath her thighs, his other arm slipping around her shoulders lifting her from the couch.

"I think I remember the way," he whispered.

Della giggled in his arms as he kissed her neck.

"So how good am I, Counselor?" she laughed as he carried her down the hall to her bedroom.

"Very good, Miss Street, very, very good."

~~~Fini~~~


End file.
